by Amarie Avant
“Marry the Sheikh?” I joke, my attention still fully engulfed with each kill. But word choice with Burt is always amusing. Hmmm, I consider the timeframe of each – fly to the United States and expire the mark, and then back to London for the prophet. Yes, I could murder them both. Shite, their deaths will come too easily.
“You know what I mean! Ask for his daughter’s hand! We've just been gifted everything under the sun for the murder of one of his adversaries.”
“That was nothing.” The Arab that I murdered a few days ago was a simple mark. The Sheikh has more than just a strong-arm on the entire country but murdering one’s own family doesn’t sit right by him. In addition, who can you trust to take out your own blood? The entire dynamics would just ruin how people perceive him. So, I came in to smoke the financial advisor, who was also the Sheikh’s brother-in-law.
“Our finances put us in a semi-reputable state,” Burt begins making plans as if he’s pitching the marriage idea to somebody who gives two fucks. An oil heiress, Princess Noor, and myself? We both have billions. So, what? Their billions stymie the few that I have and then there’s my hobby. My love for murder. She’d just get in the way.
The Sheikh would offer his daughter as a possession. I have no need for a possession–with a heartbeat– in my field, unless I’m enjoying down time. That is after getting the business of being a royal Duke out of the way.
“Okay Burt the Butler, take it easy.” I give a calming chuckle, finally putting the glass tablet on the statue’s ledge beside me. His eyes narrow at the nickname I bequeathed him as a child. “I’m not marrying Noor. America is best. What if this prophet is the real deal? Don’t want to murder the Messiah,” I joke, reading how many people the guy “saved” during Evangelistic event. After murdering the American, another assignment might come in, one that whisks us opposite of Europe. I can live on the move.
My royal duties can be handled via phone conference. I can stop in once a month for the D’Ross Enterprise business meetings.
“There's nothing funny about this mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Victor. Of all your hobbies and vices, this is the only one that you pursue on a daily basis. God forbid you seek a new hobby. Those fencing courses at age four only made you worse as a child.” Burt pauses briefly, then continues to babble, “And now you are murdering people for the cost of gassing up your private jet. Tosh!”
“We’ll ride first class.” I pat his shoulder. “Good idea?”
“Commercial? Good idea, eh?” Burt is stumped. He's the only one I allow to debate with me, and even now he knows his limitations as he decides to keep mum, since I’m not to be persuaded.
“Let's enjoy a few bleach blonds, or how about a few runway models? Burt, you choose. Then I can murder Dr. Whitson and we will head home for a while.” At the mention of my palace in Arlington, Burt is momentarily placated. I quickly accept the American assignment, press the button for self-destruct and allow the smart tablet to fall into one of the magenta, blue and gold clay pots in the hallway.
POOF. The sound resonates against the walls as Burt mumbles about retirement. Not at all worried about his usual tactic, I retreat to the room that I've been sharing with Noor this past weekend.
She's comfortable and naked again, eating green grapes. “Vic,” she flirts. I recall how I had placed a grape into her pussy, taken it out and made her eat it. I'd even made her tell me just how good it tasted, enticing me to eat her out. Noor had yet to convince me to reciprocate. I consider giving her one more chance, but America is calling and I've only ever been there for Vegas.
“I release you, Noor.”
Dark gaze clouded, she looks at my hard face. “Release me?”
I nod slowly.
Her eyebrows lift as realization sinks in. Tears stream down Noor’s cheeks, just like all the other women that have preceded her and all the beautiful women that will follow hereafter.
Lux
The potent floral fragrance surrounds me as I enter my flower shop, Urban Garden. I'm instantly relaxed, while dressed in a peach maxi dress, a leather jacket and leather booties. I put the keys to the florist shop in my red-and-green-polka dot apron pocket. The shop is so tiny, it’s more of a vendor stall in which we have to run inside to determine what we need if it's not already in flowerpots by the entryway. After opening the blinds, I start to lug out the first clay pot of yellow roses. I sense someone's eyes on my round ass.
“Hey, shorty–”
I know the voice. Standing up straight, I put a hand on my thick hip and say, “Deondre, I'm just about average female height.”
Deondre has on distressed jeans, a navy-blue polo, and there’s a New York Yankee’s cap slung low on his head. It’s difficult to see the sincerity in his eyes without peering hard enough. His skin is a rich brown, and everything about him has all the women on the block willing and waiting. He raises an eyebrow while handing me a chai tea.
“Thanks again, although I’ve said you don’t need a reason to say hello on your way to work.” I shake my head.
“Yeah, but your brain is always elsewhere. I needed something to get your focus.”
I offer a weak smile. Damn, I wish he would stop bringing me by coffees and teas and scones. Although I appreciate it, my heart is not in the mood for anything other than the biological function of sorting blood.
“Hey, if you want to give somebody a reason to come to work in the morning that would be me, my partner in crime,” Aliyah says stepping up to the door a few minutes late, as usual. She’s almost 6 feet tall, but lanky even in shape wear.
I ignore the two. I start putting the flowerpots of roses, lilies and begonias outside. After a few minutes of Deondre staring at my round derrière and making mmm, mmm, mmm sounds, he tips his coffee to us. Then he is off to his job at the sandwich vendor about two blocks down.
“Will you help me?” I ask Aliyah, as I'm hefting another clay pot with daisies. Setting down the pot, I quickly snatch my drink out of her hand before she can even take a sip. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This is all mine.”
“Luxury, you know I need caffeine to survive. Is that why you keep denying that sexy piece of chocolate, just so he can unknowingly bring me coffee in the morning?” Aliyah gingerly attempts to take the drink from my hand, but I side step her. “Damn it, Lux, Deondre smells so gooood, coming in here every morning just to give your unsatisfied ass a lil’ somethin’-somethin’.”
“It's not a conspiracy. Yes, he smells great. And yes, I tell Deondre to stop bringing me coffees and teas all the time. And you're going to move these last two pots or no chai tea,” I promise, being more of a fruit smoothie person anyway.
“For real, Luxury?” Aliyah whines.
“Yes, drag it right outside,” I tell her. That will give enough walking room for the occasional shopper that is in search of a particular flower.
It has been a couple of forevers since I've been loved, though I’ve never gotten flowers. Maybe if I look back, in retrospect, love never loved me. The man I wanted to marry, Arnold, and I had attended to NYU together. He was working on his MBA. I was still doodling around in a creative writing major, when I brought him home. Dad gave his approval. With a solid education, all his teeth, and a heartbeat who wouldn’t approve their daughter’s first real boyfriend. First guy I ever brought home really.
Lost my virginity at the high school prom for the sake of doing it. My boyfriend at the time made me feel pretty though, so there are no regrets there. Still I know I’m some type of pretty, even with a spray of icky, little freckles on my cheeks, light brown skin and curly, unruly hair from my Black and Scottish heritage.
At one inch under five feet tall, I guess I'm not to be taken seriously. At least that's how I feel after my longest relationship ended with his marriage to another educated black woman from NYU. Shoulda, coulda, woulda taken after my father more, but didn’t get the phenom gene. Besides having the same icky freckled appearance, he's an engineer, inventor and a very loud person–only when comedy is
involved. Other than that, Dad's as quiet as my tiny mom once was. But she loved flowers. And no matter how much it hurts to have never gotten them, besides from my parents, I love them, too.
“Good morning, Miss Lux.”
“Mr. Able...” My smile is as bright as the sunshine. It's around 10 a.m. when a black male customer comes inside. He has to be in his late seventies, with hair white as snow and dentures so big that his mouth always in a goofy grin. But once a month he comes to gather flowers for his wife. “The pink gerbera daisies are over here. The best selection from here to Delaware.” I direct him over to the flowers. They're so bright and beautiful and Mr. Able always said that the species made his wife smile like she once did when they were falling in love. Damn, maybe I love… love.
“Heyyy, Mr. Able.” Aliyah smiles, as she hands Pablo change for another dozen red roses. Pablo comes in often, and one day soon red roses will be gifted on more than just a first date. She chats with Pablo for a little while longer. We usually have puppy dog expressions on our faces, hoping for the best for him. Then Aliyah comes over to where Able is telling me about his wife’s latest greatness.
He could easily say that his wife just woke up and cooked breakfast today and make it seem like matters of the heart. This no taking love for granted for the Ables. As if everything she does means the world to him.
After a few hours into our shift, the morning crowd dies down. So, I lean against the glass display that houses boutonnieres and corsages. Aliyah comes over and we both sigh. Working at Urban Garden is like being a Marriage and Family Therapist. We’re often encouraging, giving advice, and telling stories of how certain flowers have certain romantic powers. Well, at least I think it's like being an MFT.
“What's going on with you, Aliyah? Is Tommy any closer to saying that dreaded three-letter word?” We stand there; both of us unloved, yet in the center of someone else's romance. Oddly, besides Mr. Able and a few local’s situations, we are often in the center of someone else’s life that we may never even know, when their lovers come and gather flowers. We don’t even get to delight in their counterparts’ expression upon receipt.
“Well, I cooked him a hot meal. Thanks for that brownie recipe. Next time he wants them with a little oomph.”
I arch an eyebrow, knowing exactly what she means. Potheads and I do not mix. Tommy pushes drugs and samples them, too. But I had told Aliyah when she first got with him, to be mindful. So, there’s nothing left for me to say on the subject.
For a while, I’m stuck in my thoughts wondering what life event Arnold and Tiffany have completed besides marriage. First house? First child? First dog or perhaps a cat? Tiffany is her name. She went to NYU with us. I hadn't even considered her a threat when they studied together. Chock it up to me being gullible. We were juniors at the time. Technically, I was a third-year freshman having yet to declare a major, when Arnold told me that his study-buddy had won his heart. But that was then.
The rose shaped clock near the door hints that it’s almost noon. So, I gather the black roses I take to my father's work every third Monday of the month and grab a silk gold ribbon to twine around them.
“Wow Luxury, you are the best daughter in the world,” Aliyah chimes in as I step out the front door.
I shrug with a smile and quickly hail a cab. This is the only part that eats at my pockets. But nothing is better than seeing the smile on my father’s face.
Victor
While I'm vexed that Burt’s sour face has stayed that way since getting on the commercial airliner and even after the ride to the Bulgari Hotel, I know he’s mentally tallying up things to report to my mother. I'm 35 years old and Burt still goes back and tells mother everything. This has been his habit since I could crawl and look under females' skirts.
He swipes a white-gloved finger on a milk white glass lamp in the living room. “Aside from the dust, I cannot fathom who’d select this design scheme. Gaudy meets quaint,” he says, pointing to another lamp that's a chunky gold. Then his mouth opens wide, forehead rising–
“If you sneeze one more time, Burt!” I snap, coming down the three steps that separate the master suite from a v-shaped sunken living room. A grand piano is stationed on a black, marble platform. Glass walls extend from the floor to ceiling, giving us a 360-degree view of the entire downtown area, since we have the exclusive use of the Bulgari’s top floor. To one side, the Empire State building is a dominating historical force. Then the Hudson River is visible from another area, and tons of other landmarks.
“Do it. I’ll forgo a much-needed holiday and resign for good,” he mumbles at my threat after a few sneezes. “Actually, let’s kill Whitson before brunch.”
“Let's?”
“You do understand what I've inferred, Duke of Arlington,” Burt says. I mouth my title with the same irritation that Burt holds. Even though Burt takes no part in my hobby, he is up to speed on every aspect of my life.
“I know. Burt, you are an avid sharpshooter,” I reply after doing the last button on my black button up. I then pick up my diamond cufflinks from next to the “gaudy” lamp. I'm dressed in black slacks and shoes. All Burberry black, all me.
“I told you we should have opted for the vault.” Burt glares at my cufflinks.
“This is a five-star hotel, Burt. I’ve already given you charge to secure a realtor to purchase in the area. Yet, you refuse. How ironic, my butler refusing to do my bidding. Moreover, if anyone steals my cufflinks kudos to them.” I give a soft chuckle.
He blinks at me for a second, the lack of retort speaks volumes. Burt doesn’t think much of the States. I haven’t been compelled to return for other than the X-Member association. Hence the hotel. “Oh okay, I’ll get right on that, Victor. But something tells me you’d rather the instigation of staying at a hotel. I can see it now. Someone steals your cufflinks at this five-star hotel. Then you will find and shoot them because that's all you do. Bait and shoot. Bait and shoot.” His head moves back and forth with each word.
Bollocks, that is a rather accurate assessment. “Of course, I’d be obliged to pay that person back.”
I hear him scoff as I head down the private elevator with a black duffle bag containing my sniper rifle and all the equipment needed to put the good old Dr. Whitson out of his misery.
Once I'm in the backseat of the cab, I chuckle at how Burt would have felt even sitting where so many others have. Burt had purchased a Mercedes S550 and had it waiting at the airport when we arrived. Though not the crème de la crème of luxury vehicles, it boasts enough accommodations to be acceptable, yet discreet. Although not suitable enough for today, today requires the utmost discretion. I look up after putting on sunglasses and leather gloves. We're about two feet away from Bulgari. The traffic is atrocious.
“Thanks.” I pull out a Benjamin for the driver while opening the door.
“Thanks pal!”
I take to the streets like a loyal businessman. The streets from Bulgari to Gecko Technologies and blueprints have been imbedded in my mind during the plane ride. It takes a certain level of disconnect to delight in every aspect of murder. Though I won’t allow myself to become consumed with the kill, I want to scope out the scene and get a feel for Whitson’s schedule. I think as my father for a second. It’s been a while since I’ve done a cover up murder, one in which there is no denying that the death is self-induced or because of an ailment. Maybe, just maybe, that’s how I’ll take Whitson out.
This musing over murder has become one of my favorite pastimes. Just ruminating about a hit, not even to the point of completing the actual deed, that's the most fundamental, enjoyable part.
My father used to force me to go hunting when I was younger. Mother would always turn up her nose. He argument was that it wasn’t becoming of the future duke to parlay in such common activities. Father would scoff, and remind her that his blood boosted royalty, she boosted luck. Nothing on this green earth was untouchable or beneath him, unless he deemed it as such. Hunting quail had always
been a pastime for royalty, but Mother knew Father was psychotic. He only delighted in the dynamics of taking lives. Human or animal, that was never important. How, now that was crucial…
His words are with me even now. “It’s all about opportunity. The kill is of no significance. Quality over quantity. Fine details all the way down to the most minute, now that’s what is fundamental.” Father’s credo had filled my brain as I took my first life. A quail. But a life nonetheless.
Then the stakes were higher...
About 15 minutes into my journey, I approach a skyscraper with mirrored walls that reflect the smoggy, gray skies. A swarm of beautiful, seemingly intelligent women are walking around in tight pencil skirts. This is hardly the day for death as one blonde in a particularly short red dress seizes the opportunity to give me the go ahead.
“Hey, whatcha got there?” she asks, twiddling her finger through her straight, platinum blond hair.
“A really big gun,” I state in a matter of fact manner, since I’m prone to telling the truth.
The blonde begins to laugh her ass off. I'm instantly turned off as she considers my statement the funniest comment of the year. I'm always aware of my surroundings, and notice this child... A flurry of shocking, spiral, copper-colored hair obstructs my view of her face. But she’s holding some sort of flowers while walking across a very busy street.
A bike courier zips through traffic, moving faster than the speed of light. My eyes roam from the child to the lean, agile rider. It takes a nanosecond for my mind to analyze the fact that the absent-minded girl will be hit at the current rate she’s walking.
Lux
I let out a piercing scream, I've never been so angry in my entire life. The black flowers go somersaulting into the air. Then petals of beautiful, silky, ebony flowers are all around me and I look up. No, I mean really look up at the brawny chest of this tall figure. I automatically start pounding the bully in his chest as hard as I can.